The Digger's Rest (45 page)

“
Save myself? Save myself? Why, so I
can be left alone again. . . without you? NEVER! I…I…I…” Simon
shouted angrily at the Mitch in the old man’s eyes, stopping in
mid-sentence, afraid to say what he really felt. A flush of hot
color came into his face. The old man’s eyes changed back to tiny
black beads, nodding his head. Simon understood and turned back to
the creature screaming.
“Abitu, Abizu,
Hakash, Avers Hikpodu, Ayalu, Matrota…I know who you are. You
cannot hurt me.”

Enraged at the thought of the mongrel
being given the blessings; powerless because Simon knew her true
names but still as clever as time itself, she spat back,
“But I can hurt him which is the same
thing,”
and she flung Mitch into the far tower wall
with the whip of her tail; his body sliding down to land in the
corner. Then wailing with the frustration of her purpose failed,
the shattering sound of her screaming voice shook the already
weakened walls around them making them crumble and fall.

The atmosphere around them whipped
itself up into gale force winds; the ground quaking violently
beneath their feet; rocks tumbling to the ground from the larger
walls of the ruins as Simon strode toward her, power radiating from
his otherwise innocent blue eyes. He saw she was afraid…of him. She
changed again and Sister Mary Immaculata was standing before
him.
“This is God’s will, Simon, you must
not interfere,”
she pleaded. The image of the love
Sister Mary always had for him weakened him and he hesitated. The
old man saw it too, understood and flicked his gnarled old finger
at her.

“
Be gone, demon
harlot!”

Sister Mary screamed, her image
shattering.

Seeing her for what she was again, Simon
thought back to that Christmas Eve at Holy Family when Mitch first
came to him, beautiful, strong, loving. Then saw him in the corner;
broken and dirty, blood oozing from his pores at the feet of a
monster. His heart filled with the anger of a lifetime; hatred
beyond all imagination welled up in him with an intensity of just
one purpose.

Her wings opened and she leapt into the air,
escaping into the sky above them. Simon heard a weird sound come
from behind him. Twang, whoosh, thunk and a startling ear splitting
scream as the old man’s arrow with a Holly flight soared through
the air, piercing the creature’s shoulder, sending her plummeting
back down to the ground. Simon rushed forward and hurled himself on
her, driving a long stake with a holly shaft under her ribs.

The old man suddenly appeared behind her,
pulling her head back to shove another holly shafted stake down her
throat. Throwing them off violently, she stood up on her haunches,
screaming another high pitched shriek, writhing in pain as she
tried with her many arms to dislodge the holly stakes from her ribs
and throat.

Simon was up again and on her with another
stake, shaped like a dagger, rampaging, erupting, surging more with
each blow, tears of love running down his cheeks, power and
strength coursing through his veins; every cell, every nerve, as he
looked into her eyes, roaring like the lion he’d become inside.

Her head began to shake violently from side
to side, her face changing with each turn. She was no longer the
demon harlot, she was…Sister Mary Immaculata; she was his mother.
She was an ancient Mesopotamian goddess; an Egyptian princess. She
was Melanie Woodward; a Greek oracle. She was an African fertility
idol; then an Asian prostitute. She was Lady Madeline, then
Sandrine. She was Ivy Farthing, then a beautiful Italian
Renaissance aristocrat. She was a French Queen with powdered wig,
then a Balinese dancer. She was a blonde American film star; then a
raven-haired pop singer; then she returned to her true self, horns
and teeth, hair and scales.

With just her eyes open, she shifted them
from Simon to the half ruined tower above where Mitch was lying
semiconscious. In the wild rage of his fury, Simon brought down
his stake one more time ramming it through her forehead. The life
left her eyes, but not before the ground beneath them shook again,
one last enormous rumbling heave.

The wavering towers crumbled and pitched
until the weakest of them collapsed, sending a hail of boulders
showering down on Mitch’s body.

The next thing Simon knew, the old man was
dragging him, kicking, screaming and crying off the creature’s
body, “I am not God’s mistake,” he sobbed as the old man brought
him up to his feet.

“
Nay, nay, boy. She is
finished. Thou must go to thy Master.”

Simon got up and ran, limping over to Mitch.
The old man went in the other direction, kicking the creature’s
body until it rolled back over into its grave; disintegrating back
into the bones it came from.

Over at the pile of rubble, Simon could see
that Mitch was all but buried; his face half smashed, a bloody
pulp; one arm and both his legs. He screamed to the old man in
panic. “Help him!”

The old man came over and looked at the body.
“Hurry, boy, get me some wheat, straw, anything grassy,
quickly!”

Simon’s mind scattered, reaching in every
direction for what he needed. He ran to the tent, coming back with
a large cardboard box. “Will this do?” he asked the old man
breathlessly. The box was filled with packing straw that they’d
brought to crate artifacts.

“
Cover his wounds with it, quickly,”
the old man ordered, and they covered him.

“
The essence of thy spirit is the wheat
of the fields,” the old man chanted nervously, “And so I give thee
back to the wheat.”

“
No! No!” Simon shouted.

“
Hush, boy!” the old man shouted back,
then took out the small knife from his pocket.

Simon knew then. The old man sliced a small
cut in his wrist, sprinkling the blood over the packing straw.
Mitch’s body started to twitch. His eyes opened, filled with pain.
He saw Simon kneeling over him, his lips moved slightly. Simon
leaned in to hear. “Save yourself,” Mitch whispered. There was only
one answer Simon could give. He looked deeply into Mitch’s pain
filled eyes, touching his face gently. “Where you go, I go.”

The old man waved his hand in front of
Mitch’s face. “Sleep,” and looked at Simon, his tiny black eyes
full of worry. “I am old and weak, and sick. I don’t have the
strength.” He looked at the knife and then at Simon. Simon grabbed
the knife from the old man’s hand and punctured his own wrist,
deeply. A shower of blood spurted out over the straw covering
Mitch’s wounds.

“
The essence of thy spirit is the wheat
of the fields and so I give thee back to the wheat from whence thou
came and through which ye shall be restored,” Simon repeated,
following the words as fast as they were put into his head, his
little body shaking, a flood of tears mixing with the blood as he
showered Mitch’s body.

“
The essence of thy spirit is the wheat
of the fields and so I give thee back to the wheat from whence thou
came and through which ye shall be restored.”

Neither Simon nor the old man noticed that
Gayle had arrived and had wrapped Ivy Farthing in a blanket and was
taking her away until she came back with another blanket for them
to carry Mitch’s body away.

***

Fi was taking the garbage out to the
back of the inn when they got there. Before she could even open her
mouth to ask what was going on Gayle was on her.
“Forget,”
she said with a wave of her
hand. She had to do it one more time with one of the bus boys who
saw her taking Ivy to her room to clean her up and make
her…sleep…and forget.

Simon and the old man managed to get
Mitch to his room, but he was heavy so Simon tried something he’d
never done before, and wasn’t sure he could.
“Rise,”
he commanded the unconscious body and it
did. They only had to guide it back to the room. When they got
there, they put Jack into a chair and Mitch on the bed. The old man
looked at Simon, shaking his head.

“
I am too old and thou art too young,”
he said with sad resignation in his voice.

“
We can’t give up,” Simon shouted,
pacing back and forth across the floor.

“
I don’t know what else I can do. His
injuries are beyond our strength to restore,” the old man said,
sitting down and putting his head in his hands.

“
What about Gayle?”

“
She’s a woman. A woman will not do to
give life to other than to her own kin,” the old man answered.
Simon saw Jack out of the corner of his eye, walked over and waved
his hand in front of his face.
“Awake!”

When Jack opened his eyes, Simon was kneeling
before him. “He’s dying,” Simon said, pointing to the bed. Jack
looked over. His color was more bloodless and ashen than before;
his lips completely blue.

The old man looked up and knew what Simon
wanted to do, but he would even go him one better. He reached into
his pocket and pulled out a black root and his knife and went over
to Jack. Jack looked to Simon, fear in his eyes. “Don’t be afraid,”
Simon said and took his hand.

The old man unbuttoned Jack’s shirt, exposing
his chest. He sliced the root and gave it to Simon. Simon took the
root and bled on it from his wrist then put it over Jack’s heart.
“Heal,” they both commanded at the same time. Jack startled from
the rush of fresh blood through his veins, color instantly shooting
back into his face.

“
What the fuck?” Jack said, swooning
from the new blood rapidly shooting through his veins.

“
We need you to keep him alive, Dr.
Edgeworth,” Simon said urgently. “We need your blood.”

“
He is still weak and very ill,” the
old man said to Simon. “It will kill him if we do this.”

Simon looked into Jack’s eyes, begging him
without words.

The only thought that came to Jack’s mind was
of when they were wheeling him through that long white hallway,
feeling Mitch’s hand take his, looking into those green feline like
eyes and hearing him say, “I love you, Jack.”

“
Do whatever you have to,” Jack said in
a tone that left no room for argument.

Simon and the old man pushed the chair over
to the bed and took Jack’s wrist, putting the knife in his other
hand. Simon showed Jack the cut in his wrist as did the old man,
showing him what he needed to do.

Jack took the knife, looking at his broken
boy the way he had in that bathroom so many years ago and said to
him, tears running down his cheeks “I love you, too,” and pierced
his vein, letting the blood flow out of it, dripping over Mitch’s
straw covered chest. There was nothing more Simon or the old man
could do but watch and pace as Jack’s life force drained from his
arm onto the crushed body on the bed.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
Simon and the old man looked at each other. But something was
different. The old man sniffed at the air; a look of knowledge
coming into his eyes. “Rotted earth,” the old man said to Simon in
his soundless voice and started to pull Jack’s chair away from the
bed. “Help me, boy!”

Simon took the other side of the chair and
they pulled it back against the wall behind the door. “And do what
I tell thee when I tell thee! Now answer the door,” the old man
said, his soundless voice taking on an echo.

Simon turned and opened the door. A large
older man was standing there in a very fine gray suit. He had
Mitch’s chin and nose, and Simon knew, immediately.

“
Is this Dr. Mitchell Bramson’s room?”
the man asked.

Simon nodded and let the man walk in, closing
the door behind him. The old man took Simon’s right hand from
behind the door and held it tight, sending him the message.

Without hesitating Simon pushed the old man
in the suit forcefully against the back of the door, putting the
palm of his left hand on the man’s chest where his heart would be,
pressing hard.

“
What the…” was all Julian Bramson the
Third got out, the words seizing in his mouth. The last things he
saw were Jack’s eyes as the old man put his other hand over the
root on Jack heart.

***

When Simon came in for breakfast the next
morning he was more tired than he’d ever been in his life. He could
barely pick his good foot up, much less carry the weight of the
brace on his other one. He slipped into a chair at the first table
he saw.

“
You look like you could use a strong
cup,” Deck said putting his hand on Simon’s shoulder from behind.
Simon looked up. Deck came around, his blue gray eyes and sad smile
showing no traces of his troubles. Simon closed his eyes, shaking
his head.

“
I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.
You had me worried there for a while,” Simon sighed.

“
Nah,” Deck said. “Just a touch of the
flu, I guess. I’m as strong as a horse today.” Then his expression
and tone changed. “I’m so sorry about Dr. Bramson, Simon. I know
how much he meant to you. I wish there was something I could
do…”

“
I think he would want us to finish
what we came here to do,” Simon said, struggling to piece together
something to say. “Our boss, Dr. Edgeworth, arrived last night and
there are some still things we need to do…but not today.” Simon let
his head hang down, thinking. “Speaking of…didn’t you say something
about black coffee…?”

“
Coming right up,” Deck said and went
to fetch it.

A moment later there was another voice behind
him. “Jed told me about the accident yesterday. I’m so sorry
Simon,” Sandrine said and came around to sit opposite him and took
his hand.